Dormias Modo Post Mortem
by AliasStars
Summary: Sam's been stabbed and poisoned by something or another, and he's slowly bleeding out. Dying. He wants to die. He really wants to die. God knows he deserves it. So... Why won't Dean let him die? (Shameless Tired!Sam Whumping, Protective!Dean. Rated for themes.)


**Yep, I guess you could call this a mess of Sam-whumping word vomit. I've an exam tomorrow, I have no idea why I'm doing this, and prepare yourself for a sinful lack of periods.**

* * *

"Stay with me, Sammy."

Sam decides that what he hears bleeding out of Dean's voice is furious urgency, the perfect blend of _I'll have the head of whatever did this to you_ and _damn it, Sam, you'd better say something or I'll kill you myself._ It feels like an hour since claws had dug into his side and left a wound there that had jerked him down to first his knees and then onto his stomach.

Leaving him to die in the pile of glass that lay around, regards of a pot Sam had broken when he took a shot. He doesn't think an apology will suffice, because the pot is happily getting revenge by digging into his back. Nothing burns worse, however, than the creature's poison.

Not that he blamed it, whatever it was. He and Dean had burned its children and killed its mate and he reckons that if he were it then he would be gunning to get revenge as well.

Oh, wait. _That did happen._ Mate was perhaps a little strong, but Jessica was the closest thing to the word that he could think of and if not her then someone else, because he was at fault for his mother, too. But he, unlike the creature, just made everything worse and didn't even end up killing Azazel to begin with.

 _"Sam!"_

Sam is so tired. He's so tired. It's not just the blood loss, which is only part of the reason why he's so frickin' tired and God, he really wishes Dean would stop yelling in his ear and shaking him because he just wants to sleep or die or whichever comes first. There's a weird saying about that, like _you can sleep when you're dead_ or something, and if that's the case, he wishes he was dead so that he could sleep.

But Dean won't let him.

Dean keeps jostling him, moving him, sending a fiery pain down his arms and legs that liquefies his bones and makes him keen. He wishes Dean would just leave him and let him sleep and he won't and Sam thinks he's being so cruel.

"Ple," he garbles, cracking his eyes open a little bit to see Dean's face hovering above his. Dean looks beyond panicked; he looks all white and ghost-like but a little bit of hope glitters in his eyes when Sam attempts to communicate.

"Please what, kiddo? Talk to me. C'mon, talk to me." Sam can feel Dean doing something, probably fixing the wound, but that's the last thing he wants. Bleeding out is a kinder death than he deserves but he'll take it any day.

"L'me sl'p," he begs, but Dean, his cruel brother, looks murderous at the very thought. He moves Sam again, and whatever is in his blood burns so intensely, crescendos into a tsunami of fire until Sam is screaming. It's agony. It hurts so much that any comprehensible thought burns away until all he can think is _why Dean why Dean why are you doing this to me I said I was sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-_

He doesn't know he's speaking out loud until Dean tells him to shut up.

"Stop, Sam. Stop apologizing." Dean is near his face now. "You feel like crap because that son of a bitch poisoned you. It'll be over soon, I promise."

No, Sam realizes. He doesn't feel like crap because he's been poisoned, even though, okay, that's part of the reason why, he feels like crap because he is crap. He caused everyone in his life to die and he betrayed Dean for Ruby and all his life is is one shabby junk-heap of regrets. He hopes it's over soon. He hopes he dies.

"You're not going to die, Sam. Shut up."

He needs to stop talking out loud.

"Too bad, your brain's not working in tandem to your mouth." Dean sounds breathless, anger biting into his words, and he's still _moving me oh god stop moving me I'm going to die from the fire oh god oh god._

"I'm so sorry, kiddo. I know it hurts. We're going to make it better, okay?" How can Dean sound so fond, so affectionate, even after everything Sam has done? How can he be okay with him? Hell, how can he even stand him? Why is Dean bothering to move him, why is he hurting him, why won't he just let him die?

"Because, moron, you're m' pain in the ass little brother. Any more idiotic questions?"

Dean is fixing him. Sam doesn't want to be fixed. He doesn't think he can be fixed anymore. He's too damaged, too broken, in too many pieces to be pasted together by his brother's warm hand. He's been splintered and smashed and he feels like even if Dean does put him together one more time, all it will take is someone's breath for him to fall to itty bitty pieces.

"What? What about glass?" Dean mutters, and Sam realizes yet again that he can't shove a stopper into his mouth. "Bobby's given me an antidote, remember? You're going to be okay."

Okay? He almost does laugh at that. How can he ever be okay? He will never, ever be okay again. Ever. Okay is something he _prays_ for. He used to wish for happiness, but _okayness_ is something Sam would just about kill for at this point. His fingers creep forward only a little after a bit of painstaking effort, but with a violent jerk, he manages to throw his wrist out to grab Dean's. "No an'dote." he says, his words watery and breaking and loose. "H'rs t' much, 'Een."

"Duh," Dean snaps breathlessly, "This is the _antidote_ to help with the pain, you idiot." He tries to move Sam's wrist. Sam refuses to budge. He can feel his tense, panic-bound brother stiffen beneath his hand.

 _"No,"_ he says, firmly this time. He really just wants the fire to materialize him. "Le'me sl'p," he whispers, and the air hitting his face is cold, and he knows he must be weeping like a friggin' baby. "S'ok." It's just sleep. He'll wake up and come back to this crap-hole of a life again because the world has it out for him and everyone he loves, but for now, he just needs some sleep.

But Dean isn't having it.

"S _am,"_ Dean sounds appalled. Just another way Sam has appalled him. He's not surprised that he's disgusted his brother. It's pretty much a natural occurrence these days. "This better be the poison talking or I'm going to kick your ass from here to next week."

Sam huffs a laugh. Dean looks even more angry.

"Tell me what's so funny, Sam." He sounds like he doesn't want to know the answer to the question. Sam doesn't know why Dean bothers. He's spent his life trying to decode the enigma that is Dean Winchester, but every time he thinks he's unraveled the guy, he becomes a freakin' hieroglyph again.

"'Ways tel'n me to sl'p, j'rk."

"Yeah, and you end up choosing the most dumbass times to actually sleep." His brother growls, still trying to pry his hand off his wrist. Sam wishes his brother would shut up and listen to him. Why does Dean have to be so stubborn like this? Another ripple of fire has him trying to jackknife, and Dean jerking to stop him.

"Seriously, Sam? I'll break your wrist if it means forcing you to live. I won't even be sorry."

"I h'te you." Sam reminds him. Dean rips the offending fingers away and in one smooth movement unloads a syringe full of a putrid green liquid into his thigh, and Sam screams, because it gets about three hundred and fifty times worse before it gets even minutely better. Dean's behind him, next to him, in front of him, a hundred different places at once. Sam feels his brother's hands dig into his shoulders, and the urge to swallow the glass lying in shards around him intensifies.

"Sammy, hold still, dammit. This thing takes time. I know it hurts. I know, kiddo."

Sam's voice goes hoarse and high and so painfully thin that he thinks he might rupture his larynx. He keens, he buckles, he kicks his stilt legs and whimpers. At one point he opens his eyes and thinks he sees Dean wiping his eyes and the sight hurts worse than the pain so he shuts them again.

"Pl' le'me _die,"_ Sam begs his brother, but Dean doesn't fulfill the wish. In fact, Dean has disappeared. He loves the guy but he's a stubborn ass and right now Sam is hurting so badly that he would have traded anything to make the pain stopstopstop. When he can't take it anymore, when the liquid surging into his veins starts to battle the poison in some agonizing war in his body, he gropes for the knife lying a few feet away, tries to scoop it in his hand, feels it get away from him before he actually wraps it into his blood-slick hands. He positions it over his own heart and is just about to swing downward when Dean somehow reappears, forcing Sam's hand back and flattening it down harshly against the glass. The pain is nothing compared to the hell in his blood; it almost feels good. Sam snorts.

But he stops feeling humorlessly amused when he feels Dean's full-body shivers. "Sam, stop, kiddo. You're not dying on my watch. Not here." His hand slides through Sam's probably bloody strands of hair and Sam sighs, deciding to revel in the moment before he explodes.

"M'sleepy," he tells Dean, even though Dean isn't responding to his pleas and is instead just making it so much worse. He really hopes Dean isn't crying, because he's dancing on the line of his breaking point and if he sees his brother cry they'll have to throw him in one of those soundproof rooms while he giggles and uses his blood to paint the walls. He frowns, pretty sure that at some point he has used his blood to paint the walls. He frowns some more, realizing that his life really sucks.

"Sam, no." Dean shakes him, and with the shake, the pain that had started to dull in his limbs rocks back to full force again, and the tears that had just started to dry basically water his face down. He sobs, flails, feels his veins and arteries start to melt away. How could Dean do this to him? How could he let him burn slowly? He knows he's done so many questionable things but if Dean was going to kill him he'd want it to be quick and fast. Though, he decides, that's probably exactly the opposite of what he deserves, so the cruel, twisted irony of him burning slowly to death is a fitting punishment for all he has wronged.

But even he didn't imagine that Dean had it in him. Dean's forgiven him so many times.

"Oh god," he gasps, choking wetly on his own tears, "Oh _god D'n pl's ma'e i' st'p-"_ He hopes he suffocates or rolls onto a really nasty piece of glass and his nails respond to his delirious brain, rising up to claw at his throat like he might just slit it. There's always Dean in the way of him dying but he's okay, he'll manage, and if Sam can just dig real deep then he can aid the whole bleeding out thing and maybe even die or sleep or whatever sooner.

But suddenly the pain is ebbing away and darkness is encroaching on his vision, and even through that darkness Dean's wet and miraculously clear face stares back at him. His emerald eyes are hazy with pain and panic and so much _love_ that it renders Sam damn near speechless. When he can talk, his words are slurred and damn, he can't even think straight, but despite that he tries to sit up. His head hurts so badly for one earth-splitting moment that he goes blind and cries out, but it stops and finally he can move again. The spell of immobility is over.

"Don't even _think_ about it." Dean shoves him back down gently enough. Sam lands in the glass and hisses as it scrapes against his back, realizing for the first time that it really does sting. "I know you're thinking about it. Hey-!" He snaps in Sam's face, and Sam refocuses. "You aren't moving for the next 24 hours, you hear me?" Dean leans in close and Sam just stares at the face whose contours he has memorized, whose stubble reminds him of home and whose lips are muttering a litany of annoyed curses and breathless intentions. "If you even _think_ about moving before that time is up, I will- _will -_ strap you to the bed in seven different places and have _Crowley_ watch you."

Sam blinks, and a slow, sure grin threads along his lips even though he feels like his bones are Jell-O and like he's been, oh, stabbed and poisoned and left to die.

"Sam?" Dean is concerned. Sam really loves him. Even though he hates him. Even though the guy won't let him die. It's okay. Sam knows he means well. It annoys him, but he knows.

"C'n I sl'p now?"

Dean sighs, not annoyed, sitting back to wait for backup. Sam's freakin' heavy head weighs down in his lap, and he nods. "Yeah, Sammy. You can sleep now."

And so his brother, wearing that stupid plaid and bloody shirt that Dean is going to burn, allows himself to sink his nose into his older brother's denim jeans and finally allows himself to briefly escape a world of so many wrongs and dive into a blissful replacement that's sweet with the smell of all things home.

* * *

"Is he all good now?" Bobby murmurs, gruffly but not unkindly from beside him as Dean mends and stitches the final inch of the horrendous gash in Sam's side. He also had to pick every piece of glass off and stitch each tiny nick made by the shards, but this was by far the brunt of it. Dean very calmly sets the equipment down, washes his hands clean of all Sam's blood, and stares Bobby in the eye.

"No," he says, his voice thick from how much he's cried. He hopes Sam doesn't remember.

"No? What else-" Bobby realizes the extent of the mental damage and exhales, his breath coming out in a whistle. "Dean- This thing's poison? It makes the inflicted wish for death. Sam's a tough kid, but-" He pops the cap from a bottle of whiskey and sits, "-That poison's potency? It's meant to take out a human. Sam's height saved him. I'm not too surprised that Sam reacted the way he did. Downright horrible, but-"

"-You didn't hear what he said, Bobby," Dean says, and is horrified to find that his eyes are going glassy with a tear-screen. "He said I wouldn't let him sleep. He started mumbling some crap about Ruby and about breaking like glass and about- about regrets."

"Thinking you're gonna die makes a person reveal a lot, Dean," Bobby murmurs sympathetically, but Dean's head rocks side to side.

"He hated me for not killing him." The words feel filthy. Has he done Sam a wrong by keeping him alive? A voice in his head tells him yes. He's been nothing but selfish and what's it gotten him? A brother wishing for death. Ready to kill himself. "He screamed and sobbed and pleaded so much that I-" _I thought about it._

"Stop it, ya idjit." Bobby snaps, face crinkling into a scowl. "It'll drive ya crazy to think, so stop thinking. Sam's gonna be fine, you're gonna be fine, and damn it to Hell if I hear either of you whine about the other again." He shoves a bottle towards Dean.

Dean drinks. Tries to forget.

And when Sam wakes up, he's so disappointed that he's been given another chance to screw up that he cries himself back to sleep.

* * *

 **I blame the recent Supernatural episodes, but I'm not spoiling anything!**

 **Reviews are gold.**


End file.
